


Waiting For You On This Nameless Beach

by lashadas



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Explicit towards the end, Kind of literally, M/M, Magic, Post Reichenbach, Sherlock doesn't have a heart, Witches, kind of inspired by The Little Mermaid
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-13
Updated: 2012-10-13
Packaged: 2017-11-16 04:58:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/535772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lashadas/pseuds/lashadas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Witches want nothing to do with little boys hearts; they have no corruption in them." Mycroft assured him.<br/>Sherlock relaxed at those words and slowly picked up the book again. One hand reached up and tucked itself softly into the left side of his chest. The constant beat against his hand calmed the fear, and he returned reading carefully.<br/>How could they hear something so buried and secret?<br/>It made him shiver in the warm room, and even Mycroft's presence did nothing to stop the thoughts of witches coming through open windows in the night to steal the beat of his heart away so they might have one of their own.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Waiting For You On This Nameless Beach

**Author's Note:**

> This fic took a really long time to write. I spent two weeks coming up with the plot before writing it completely, and I am mostly proud with how it came out. It was inspired a lot by The Little Mermaid.  
> It is unbeta'd and unbrit-picked. This is also my first explicit fic, so be gentle!  
> I hope you enjoy!

Old pages littered every surface of the room, looking like a strange snowfall. A dark haired boy sat in the midst of the mess, large books surrounding him as he squinted down at the tiny letters on each page. His small, heart shaped mouth murmured words that could not be heard from the doorway.

There was a page wrinkled at the foot of the older brother's shoes. He simply stared down at it without any twitches in his expression. The illustration on the page showed an aged woman, illuminated in the light of a fire. Surrounding her were thousands of jars of pickled hearts, and over the fire in a large pot, a heart boiled.

The boy did not look up as his older brother came into the room. But he spoke once he stepped over onto the white floor.

"Why do witches eat hearts? Must they always eat hearts, Mycroft?"

Mycroft idly placed a hand on the desk, where the pages rested in piles. "It is hyperbole." He replied.

"How so?" Sherlock looked up now, his light blue eyes piercing underneath a mop of curly dark hair.

"Witches will take your heart in exchange for a desire. And they say that in attempting to retrieve it back, the witch will claim it as their own, hence literature's exaggeration."

"How poetic." Sherlock spat, throwing the book down.

"Why the research, Sherlock?" Mycroft asked carefully.

Sherlock lowered his eyes to the pages surrounding him. "Can they hear it? The heartbeats?"

Mycroft looked down, surprised at the young boy. He never displayed fear in anything, but the small tremor in his voice showed that something had crawled through the walls of his rational mind.

"Do not worry _mon petite frere_. Witches want nothing to do with little boys hearts; they have no corruption in them." Mycroft assured him.

Sherlock relaxed at those words and slowly picked up the book again. One hand reached up and tucked itself softly into the left side of his chest. The constant beat against his hand calmed the fear, and he returned reading carefully.

How could they hear something so buried and secret?

It made him shiver in the warm room, and even Mycroft's presence did nothing to stop the thoughts of witches coming through open windows in the night to steal the beat of his heart away so they might have one of their own.

 

There came a time where the beating of his heart became less of a reassuring feeling. The drugs made it louder and insistent in his ears. He could feel it filling with something dark and terrible. It carried heavily in his chest. And when Victor came, with his hard set jaw and blonde curls, his heart seemed ready to burst.

When Victor left, the only thing to comfort the aching in his chest was the feeling of the needle slipping quietly into his arm and the rush of white light that flooded his thoughts with the simple push of a finger. The sound of his heart only grew louder in his ears with each passing day.

It was a burden to not only think more than anyone else, but to feel more as well. He felt his patience run thin.

The night was cold. London was known for its chilling winter air and the biggest underground majority of witches. They practiced their curses and spells in secret, where there was no light to reach them and the police could not catch them in their illegal acts. There were witches well known for healing and good deeds in the various seedy parts of the city. But there were also the witches known for their power and black magic.

Sherlock did not care which one helped him, so long as they helped him.

He found Moriarty in a small pub in Brixton. The witch was dark haired and clean cut. His eyes were dark and his mouth was long and broke into a wide smile the moment he heard Sherlock's heart beat in the doorway. He looked over with a knowing gaze. With his eyes he spoke to Sherlock, _yes I know what you want and you will get it just come to me and let me devour you, you will love it_.

The effect of the hit he'd taken before arriving seemed to dissipate under that gaze. He felt the sharpness of the room dim and become entirely focused on the witch sitting at a booth with a gin and tonic in hand. The heart beat in his ears drummed loudly, making him shuffle closer to the witch so that he was standing at the edge of the table. He sat across from him.

"I hear you are the one to see about my...needs." Sherlock stated. He was surprised his voice was steady and composed.

The witch smiled at him wide, his teeth looking sharp for several moments before his features seemed to ripple and he was just an amused looking man.

"Yes. What is it you desire?" He reached out with a short arm, his fingers unnaturally long for his body and suddenly he did not look as clean as before.

There was a shine to his hair that made him look oily, and the slight emergence of shadow on his face showed that he needed a new razor. His lips were too red and there were several red lines in the whites of his eyes.

"I no longer want to feel." Sherlock informed him.

The witch bared his white teeth. “And why, may I ask?”

Sherlock tilted his chin upwards, narrowing his eyes. “It gets in the way of everything I do.”

A flash of memory gave him a glimpse of Victor’s pale skin shivering in the warm light of a summer morning. He remembered the drug causing a hazy outline of light around his form and the deep shiver of pleasure at being so close in contact with another person.

"You know the required price." Moriarty purred.

Sherlock nodded.

"It is too bad he wanted nothing to do with you in the end."

Sherlock glared at the witch, trying to hide the bitter roll of his stomach.

Victor Trevor could be just as bored as him, apparently. Sherlock was stupid to think people weren’t changeable.

“You know the consequence.” Moriarty continued.

Sherlock nodded.

The witch flicked his hand slightly and the room seemed to shimmer. Sounds dissipated until they were a gentle murmur on the edges of his perception. His heartbeat slowed until it was simply a far away echo in his ears.

Moriarty stared at him, his features shimmering so his eyes were nothing but black holes. He grinned at him, teeth large and white inside blood red lips.

Sherlock felt an excruciating pain in his chest before it faded to nothing.

There was a hollow feeling in his chest that made him reach up and grab at the fabric of his shirt and feel that his heart had really been taken. The beat was gone. It was as though it was never there. His chest felt empty, and his emotion stunted.

"This is just the essence of your heart." Moriarty explained, holding up the red-golden light in his hands. "You will anticipate every beat, and the failure of its existence will burn hollow in your chest."

Sherlock felt it as he spoke, an aching emptiness not only in his chest but in the sounds filling his ears. The beat was absent; it no longer resided in him. Yet his wish was granted.

He looked at Moriarty and there was no longer a desperate fear lurking in his chest. The witch looked the same, but there were small details present that were not there before. Sherlock looked away, sparing himself the witches’ history. He could tell things about people from a single look, and without the fear crowding his thoughts, it was clear that the witch was indeed a person that could be read.

Moriarty stood, his suit only slightly wrinkled. The remnants of gunpowder on the lapels of his jacket showed an angry employee or a lover. Sherlock looked into the witch’s eyes to avoid looking anywhere else.

"Oh, Sherlock." Moriarty murmured lovingly, reaching out to touch him. "You've ruined me for anyone else."

Sherlock stood, backing away. He wanted nothing to do with the thing that had his heart.

So he stood and left, his back turned to the owner of his still-beating heart. The witch paid him no mind; he simply stared down at a small red light in his hand and smiled impishly down at it.

There was another shimmer to the witch’s features as he brought it carefully up to his lips, swallowing just as the last remnants of winter air slipped through the pub's doors where a dark silhouette of a boy disappeared into the darkness.

 

_Not all witches eat hearts. Not all of them need it._

_Hearts are a craving. It is a delicacy to witches like desserts are to humans. Except with these delicacies, witches become more powerful with the dull beats of a heart echoing in their otherwise empty chests. Usually hearts are only harvested by those who practice dark magic._

_Dark magic is fueled by corruption, and nothing is more corruptible than a human heart._

_Dark witches feed on the corruption of human kind. There is no better meal than the heat of a heart glowing deep red in the hands of one who knows to eat it._

_It is a temptation of all witch-kind. The beating of hearts echo constantly in their ear like the whispers of sin. To humans, corruption is the doing of evil witches. To witches, corruption lays dormant in a human heart until a witch weaves spells to erupt it._

_It is a never ending cycle._

 

He’d heard the heartbeats all of his life. For as long as he could remember, leaving the house was like walking into a room full of constant drumming beats. When he was younger, he tried to wear ear plugs to block the sound, but he came to realize that the beats were more than sound. It was a wave of feeling that rolled under his skin rather than in the hollow of his ear and twitched through him constantly.

But his mother, a witch, held no drumming heartbeat in her chest. When he rested his head on her breast in childhood, it was calming to no longer feel the thud of life constantly surrounding him. She worked to heal others. Her power was in the herbs she worked with to create potions for the sick.

It was not until his father died that he realized any witch was prone to corruption. She began to have a heartbeat. He did not know what it meant, but from then on, John could get no rest from the pounding in his ears.

When the time came for him to leave for University, his mother had many heartbeats and looked younger and more beautiful than ever. He remembered saying goodbye to her, seeing her hair shine in the sunlight and her skin pale white and clear. But her eyes reflected no light. They were empty pools of blue, staring blankly at him despite the wide smile on her face.

She died a few months into his first semester. A few months after that, Harriet joined him at the house and they began going through everything.

They found the stash of corrupted hearts in the cupboard.

It was dark, and the only light came from the slightly open door and the red glow of hearts sitting idly in jars. Harry turned away and gagged. The hearts flickered innocently in their jars like large red fireflies. John walked in despite his sister’s protests and reached to touch a glass jar, the beating hard and frantic despite being enclosed.

It was not muffled at all from the moment he reached in and felt the warmth of it in his hand. It was like a small fire that did not burn his hands, but licked at his fingers like a fire would. The heart was reaching for a place to go, for it was unconsumed and craving another body.

Hearts wanted a warm place to go, is all.

There was a small burst of something in his chest and the heart disappeared in a wisp of red smoke. Harry gasped aloud behind him.

“It’s gone.” Harry looked at him in awe. “Can you do it to all of them, John?” She asked.

He could.

_It is said that when a human being gives up their heart to witch, they are essentially considered dead. Despite their ability to move, speak and commit actions that those alive can commit; they, essentially do not have a heartbeat._

_Studies show that when the heart is removed, it is more like an essence than an actual heart. It is often described as a small fire by those who have seen it, due to its color, glow and the way it wisps around like smoke._

_There are stories of people who can restore a heartbeat to those who have lost it; Legends that are passed through time by witches who fear what can take back what they have stolen. These people are usually related to witch-kind and can hear the heartbeats of those that surround them. Burdened by the sounds, they often go mad or keep the gift secret their entire lives. Some of them do not know that they are gifted with the power._

_Not very often, due to the fact that these people are rare, heartless human beings will come in contact with one and often find their heart restored to them over time. It is a mystery that scientists, and many witches, have yet to solve._

_Some of the worst crimes were often linked to witches due to their customer’s heart being taken and restored to the rightful owner._

 

As soon as he limped into the room, he realized there was one less heartbeat than there should be. Politely, he ignored it. He knew witches did not have hearts, and it was impolite to remark on their status as it was often seen as an offense. When the dark haired man knew everything about him, he wondered what kind of witch he was.

“The name’s Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street.”

John grasped the edges of the lab table hard so that his knuckles turned white. The man was a whirlwind that picked him up and set him down. All of a sudden, he missed the feeling of the floor being swept up from under him.

“Is he a witch?” John asked, turning to Mike standing in the corner.

It seemed the introduction went well in his eyes, because he smiled broadly at him.

“No one knows. He’s always like that.” Mike said. John nodded absently and limped out of the room.

The next evening, his limp disappeared and he killed a man for Sherlock Holmes. He felt no regret whatsoever.

 

“You’re mother was a witch.” Sherlock claimed while looking down at a large book in his hands.

John looked up from the small box he was unpacking. The book was an old journal from his mother’s library. He would sit and read it when he was younger, fascinated by the different herbs. It was old now, almost falling apart. Sitting in Sherlock’s hands, it looked as though it was even older.

“Well, you should know.” John stated, turning back to the small stack of books he had in the box.

Sherlock raised a dark eyebrow and turned to him. He stared at the shorter man, his eyes flickering with something that made John look up and wonder if he’d said something wrong. It was the look that he’d given the small pill in his hands the night John had killed the cabbie. It made a shiver run up John’s spine.

“When did she start eating hearts?” Sherlock asked.

John did not understand how he knew, but he smiled to show that it was a job well done. Sherlock would tell him eventually how he came to the conclusion because John knew he was the kind for showing off. It was strange that in only a few days of knowing the man, John felt as though he’d known him for so much longer.

So he shrugged, reaching once more into the box to pull out an old mystery novel. “Sometime after my Dad died, we think.”

Sherlock nodded and placed the journal carefully back on the shelf. He reached for the mystery novel and proceeded to deduce its ending from the cover, and John couldn’t tell if he was right because it had been a gift from his sister and he had honestly never read it.

 

John looked for all the signs. He would not let Sherlock go to humans for hearts because he knew that would be unacceptable. Finding out he had been addict was something of a shock as well, because the man was so brilliant. Yet John knew from the nicotine patches and how random packs of cigarettes would pop up somewhere in the flat that Sherlock had an addictive personality. Not to mention the need for cases.

John enjoyed the empty sound around him in the flat. It was strange at first, having not had peace and quiet for so long. But after Afghanistan, where he heard the heart beats of good men fade away into the hot air, he was glad for the absence of the sound.

He needed the silence.

 

Eventually, John got a job at a clinic a few streets over. He hated it. John was a good doctor, but he specialized in surgery. With the record of his shaking hand on file, however, he could no longer work in a surgery.

When he wrote up his CV, he decided to keep out his knowledge of potions and herbs. His mother had rubbed off on him somewhat. Despite him turning out human, he still knew a lot about what certain potions did to the human body and what herbs could be used for certain ailments. His mother had made sure to teach him something before she felt the need to consume hearts.

“Why don’t you include your knowledge in Herbology?” Sherlock asked, looking over John’s shoulder at the laptop.

“Because some places don’t like that a doctor knows things usually associated with a witch.” John explained.

Sherlock scoffed, “Usually one would think a doctor with extensive knowledge in curses and healing herbs would be useful. After all, your war injury is from a witch’s curse is it not?”

John stopped typing and looked over at the detective. There was a tentative look behind the cold color of his eyes, as though he was testing boundaries. Everyone knew there were witches fighting for each side in the current war. It had always been that way. John did get shot, that’s what he told people. He just did not get shot with a bullet.

“Yeah, and it hurt like hell.” John firmly stated.

Sherlock simply nodded lightly, staring hard at his left shoulder while John ignored him as much as possible. It was difficult, considering the feeling of heat followed his every movement. He’d have to bring up a talk about polite staring.

 

There was a new case eventually, and a few dates with women who had normal jobs and did normal things. John felt like he was lying to them, in the end. His life before the army had been normal. Normal friends, classes and jobs made him happy. After the army, he was broken and lost. He had nothing to do and nowhere to go. Meeting Sherlock had turned his world upside down.

If he had met him before, he did not know how he would have taken to the man. He was mad, and John often wondered if the reason he stuck with Sherlock was because he was the same way.

 

John stepped out into the pale light of the pool, his footsteps solitary and echoing throughout the room. There was that look on Sherlock’s face.

“Evening. This is a turn up, isn’t it Sherlock?” He repeated the words from the small device in his ear.

“John. What-?” Sherlock looked confused, conflicted. Hurt.

“What would you like me to make him say next?” John said as he opened his coat to reveal the explosives vest underneath. He would burn the coat if they ever got out of this alive.

“Did you think I wouldn’t notice?”

John continued to blink rapidly in Morse code to remind Sherlock. _No I wouldn’t do this to you please believe me this is Moriarty._

“Must you involve him?” Sherlock asked.

John sighed in relief at the man catching on. He stopped short when there was a breath of laughter in his ear.

“When you bring others into our equation, dear Sherlock, they are more than involved.” Moriarty said in his ear. John repeats it. “I can stop John Watson. Stop his heart.”

“Stop.” Sherlock said. To John’s ears, it sounds like a plea.

“You haven’t even told him, Sherlock.” The gleeful Irish man muttered.

John repeated it, wary of the snipers in the area. The explosives on his chest seemed to burn hotter than any desert sun, and he was ever reminded of its presence as he breathed in and out.

“This is between you and me, Moriarty.” Sherlock claimed.

“He has no clue I stole your heart.”

John feels his voice catch in his throat. He looks frantically at Sherlock and catches the slight flicker of panic across his face.

“Say it.” Moriarty hissed.

John said it.

Sherlock grew completely still and clenched the gun in his hands so that his knuckled turned white under the pressure. His eyes roamed around the room as though hearing something approach and John heard it as well.

Jim Moriarty stepped into the dim lighted area of the pool, his suit freshly pressed and hair combed back. He looked like an average man.

John heard the fluttering of a heartbeat deep within the witch’s chest. Sherlock’s heartbeat, if not many others.

“Cat’s out of the bag, Sherlock.” Jim crooned as he walked up to them.

His footsteps echoed throughout the room. John felt nauseous from the smell of chlorine and the realization that his best friend would give away something as precious as his heart to a man who wanted nothing more than to consume it as though it was nothing more than a meal.

Eventually, Moriarty came close enough where even more words were exchanged. Words John could not hear because the pounding heartbeats in his ears were too loud. He jumped at the man when he got close and pinned his arm and neck with both hands. Sherlock looked surprised for a moment, the gun wavering in his hands before steadying once more.

“Sherlock, get out of here.” John growled.

Sherlock did not move, but the red dots on Moriarty’s chest did. They were now fixed on Sherlock. John let him go and Moriarty straightened his lapels, giving a chaotic upturn of his lips to John.

Moriarty just laughed at Johns glare. “I can see now why your heart is trying to leave me.”

“I gave it to you, so it is yours.” Sherlock spat.

“Hearts can be held by a witch but belong to another, Sherlock.” Moriarty explained. “You both have rather shown your hands here.”

“And if I shot you here? Now?” Sherlock taunted.

Jim giggled. “I would be surprised. Because somewhere in you, Sherlock, you still need what I gave you. I don’t want to give you up. Your heart is MINE.”

His voice echoed loud in the large room.

“If you don’t keep your end of the deal, Sherlock, I will _burn_ your heart.” Moriarty hissed.

Sherlock’s eyes flicked over to John for less than a second and Moriarty grinned.

 

There was a smug goodbye from Moriarty and Sherlock surged forward. The weight of the vest lifted from John’s shoulders and was thrown across the floor. Sherlock breathed hard and walked into the small hallway to be sure they were alone once again. John let out a deep laugh and sank to the ground while he watched Sherlock frantically thank him for the offer of saving his life. Somewhere in John’s mind, he thought _Oh, yes, I did offer that didn’t I?_

He was not surprised that he would give his life for Sherlock Holmes, but it made his heart beat rapidly in his chest at the thought of it. When had this man become so important to him?

“You’re not a witch.” John urged.

He was still slumped against the wall where his arms fell loosely at his sides as though they could not move on their own for a long while yet. Slowly he drew his gaze up until they were staring into pale green eyes.

“You thought I was a witch.”

“You had no heartbeat.”

Sherlock’s eyes filled with curiosity. It was like a tiny light emerging in the color of his eyes and every time John saw it he couldn’t help but be amazed. “You hear heartbeats.”

John pushed himself away from the wall and stumbled over to where Sherlock stood. He rested a perfectly steady hand to Sherlock’s chest and looked at the silk underneath his fingers. Nothing; A long stretch of nothing except Sherlock looking down at him with a penetrating gaze and deep, even breaths filtering through his lungs.

“What did you trade it for?” John asked.

“Nothing.”

“Sherlock- .”

“No, John. I traded it for nothing. I no longer wanted to feel anything.”

Something cold erupted deep within John’s chest and he clenched his hands on Sherlock’s shirt. He took a deep breath and looked up at the man.

“You don’t feel anything? Not anything?” John asked him, anger and curiosity burning in him at the same time.

Sherlock shook his head and raised a pale hand to place it over John’s. It was cold, but enclosed John’s hand like a perfect mold and it felt wonderful. They left, eventually. John came to wonder how, underneath his hand, Sherlock’s chest continued to grow warmer as they stood with each other. He wondered how the absence of Sherlock’s heart had once been a relief but from then on it was an empty, sad sound.

 

Before the pool, he thought of curses and recalled the grit of sand and the bitter tang of blood. Before the pool, he thought of curses and recalled the shouts of men and gunshots echoing deep into a yellow sky. Now, he was only to be reminded of the smell of chlorine and a lilting Irish accent. Now, he recalls the terrified eyes of a man who thinks for just a moment, that he is betrayed. And every time he thinks of Sherlock with that look in his eyes, his heart swells and breaks.

At the end of it all, he wonders how he still has a heartbeat.

 

 

When The Woman died, there was a moment where John wondered if Sherlock lied about what he gave his heart away for. The man played violin endlessly for days and did not sleep for longer. John recalled the feeling of warmth returning to the man’s skin the night at the pool. He closed his eyes in the inky darkness of his room.

He remembered making the hearts disappear out of their jars that day after his mother’s funeral. They beat wildly in his hands and suddenly disappeared. John felt as though he’d helped them go back to where they belonged. Because they were no longer under a witch’s power, they were unconsumed and searching for their rightful place.

Maybe if he tried hard enough, he could bring back Sherlock’s heart as well.

The thought stayed with him for a long time. After the pool, he understood that he would die for Sherlock. To know that he would die for someone with no thought on his part, so long as the other would live; well, that made him nervous. Was Sherlock a friend or was he more than that?

 

“Do you find me disgusting?”

John looked up at the man sitting idly on the couch. He was lying stretched out, back turned away so that his words were muffled by the dark cushions.

“Well you do leave fingers in the kettle sometimes.” John chided.

Sherlock turned around then, a flurry of blue silk and pale limbs. “No. You hear everyone else’s heartbeat but you do not hear mine. Am I not disgusting?”

John narrowed his brow and closed the lid of his laptop so that the light was no longer illuminated on his face. He set it on the ground and walked over to the man who watched his every move with a blank stare. If John looked closely, he could see the emptiness in him. But it was Sherlock, so he sat on the coffee table to sit across from him.

“At first, I thought you were too brilliant to be human.” John explained. Sherlock gave a resigned look. “No, listen.” John urged.

“Go on.” Sherlock said.

“I thought you were a witch, yes. When I found out what you did, I was not disgusted.” John smiled at him. “I was more…angry and confused.”

Sherlock gave him a look that suggested he was not expecting that answer. “Why?”

“Why would you give up so much just to feel nothing? What is it even like to feel nothing?” John asked, letting his curiosity show.

Sherlock turned so that he was on his back, looking up at the ceiling. He placed two hands underneath his chin in his classic thinking pose. After a long moment, he replied.

“It is empty. There is nothing. Just the constant feeling of breathing in and an aching.” He said.

“There is nothing at all?”

He seemed to pause at this, and after a moment he turned his head to look at John with searing green eyes. “Since meeting you, they are less muted. It is like you are a radiator of emotion and I am simply taking it in. It is muted though, it cannot be helped.”

John swallowed nervously. He did not know what to do with that. So he stood up, made tea and set a mug down by a silent Sherlock Holmes. He disappeared upstairs and thought about what the man had told him and fell asleep remembering the way he had looked at him and wanting nothing more than to touch his skin just to make certain that there really was an absent heartbeat. Because certainly Sherlock had given it up, and Moriarty had given him what he wanted. But why did John feel like Sherlock was looking at him like he wanted to simply eat him alive?

When he came down the next morning, the mug was empty and cold on the arm of the couch.

  

They eventually solved Baskerville, and a supposed hound. It was not until Moriarty’s return to the game that he realized it. The feeling of being without Sherlock was almost impossible to imagine by then. It happened too fast to really think about anything at all.

It was not until Sherlock jumped that John realized. Not until there was blood staining the white concrete beneath the darker haired man’s head did John understand. He loved Sherlock Holmes.

John Watson felt something fall apart inside of him. A thousand shattered pieces rested neatly somewhere in the cavities of his chest and he did not feel anything for a long time.

He was too busy hearing the shattering of his heart that he did not hear the bloom of one underneath the pale skin of a certain dead detective.

He thought that somehow, his heart must have erupted. Yet he could still hear it in the silence of an empty room, which he sat in so often now that Sherlock was gone. There came a day where the sound became so loud that he broke every dish and glass in the kitchen to drown it out.

The flat was still full of Sherlock’s things by the time the funeral came around. John often wondered what to do with everything. Mycroft insisted that it be stored away but John still felt like the detective would come back.

If he listened hard at night, somewhere far away, there was a heartbeat louder than any one he’d ever heard.

 

Sherlock Holmes did not realize that jumping off a building would give him everything only to make him lose it once more. He planned to fake his death and move on to destroy Moriarty’s network. But despite his plans, there was still the very real fall he made.

He was broken, in every sense of the word. It was strange to feel a heartbeat in his body once again. He figured that after Moriarty’s shot to the brain, he was now free of the bargain he had made.

It was agonizing.

The minute he landed, he felt a dark haze sweep his vision and a swelling somewhere deep within his chest that burst throughout his body ad left him unconscious. Molly Hooper did not know what to do with him except to stitch him back together and wait.

So he waited, and the full feeling in his chest did not fade. He was reminded of looking down at John Watson before jumping and a sharp pang ripened deep within his chest. His throat swelled and he felt a warm sting in his eyes.

It felt as though all the time his heart was separated from him, it was still feeling for him.

He realized after leaving Molly’s flat a month later that perhaps he made a foolish decision. To seek out a witch was to give them power over you, and he lost so much in the process. But he never believed that he would have something as great as John Watson by his side.

It was too good to be true.

So he travelled. With the help of Mycroft, he found people related to Moriarty’s network. The man had been the most powerful consulting criminal and witch that built his way up by taking hearts. Moriarty stored them in a large warehouse in Venice, and Sherlock realized that his was the only one the witch kept with him at all times.

Before, it would have been flattering. But now all he felt a rolling of the stomach and a wave of disgust hit him so hard he turned his face to the ground.

_“I owe you a fall Sherlock.”_

_“We made our deal.”_

_“But something is more powerful than my magic, here. I am losing your heart.”_

_“I can’t control it.”_

_“I owe you the feeling of nothing. So you must jump.”_

_“And if I don’t?”_

_“Then all those you keep close will die.”_

His dreams were filled with memories and his voice. Even though the witch was dead, he haunted him in sleep. Even in the daylight there were remnants of his presence. Sherlock strove to delete them all.

 

John woke to darkness and a loud crash from the kitchen. It had been a year since Sherlock’s death, and he still lived at Baker Street. There were heavy footsteps filling the usually empty air of the flat, and John took a deep breath as the adrenaline shot through him.

He reached for his drawer and pulled out his gun, stepping carefully out of bed and walking down the hall towards the sounds.

The man was tall, a few heads taller than John at least. He had light hair, obviously dyed from the slight dark roots coming in near the top.

“What are you doing in my flat?” John asked. His gun was tightly held in the palm of his hands and rose up to aim at the back of the man standing in front of it.

The man froze, his back stiffening and head raised towards the sound of John’s voice. He very slowly placed his hand on the countertop, but missed and suddenly became a tumble of limbs and fabric as he fell to the floor. John noticed the streak of red staining the counter where he touched, and the man’s hand had been coated with a deep red liquid.

John walked forward carefully, gun held loosely now in his hands. When he looked down at the man on the floor, he felt his knees give out beneath him.

“Sherlock.”

It had to be him. His eyes were that light grey-green color and he had those cheekbones that were much too prominent on his face. He hadn’t been eating, and he was obviously injured. John let the doctor in him take over.

“What happened?” He stumbled over, on his knees.

“Complications. Stab wound.” Sherlock said, his deep voice ringing sweetly in John’s ears.

The dead man shifted so that John could lift up the shirt that blocked the wound. He wore an old Grateful Dead shirt with a hoodie and beaten up jeans. He looked so unlike the man John had seen a year ago.

“Hospital?” John asked.

Sherlock shook his head vigorously. “I can’t.”

John worked quickly. He made the man lie down and fetched his medical kit, where he kept the things he needed to do basic things like stitches and cleaning. After cleaning the wound, which was not too deep thank god, he stitched it up without painkillers.

Afterwards, when the bandages were on, Sherlock looked up at John with half lidded eyes and blinked sleepily. John felt like his chest was collapsing in on itself once more. He lifted his hands heavily up to touch Sherlock’s face. The gun lay forgotten on the floor.

“Sherlock.”

 “John.”

John pushed his hands through the man’s dark hair, checking for an injury. He’d seen him fall, and the blood had been pooling out from the back of his head. There was no pulse, but there wouldn’t be would there?

John gasped when he realized that the detective was no longer silent in his chest. Rather, his heart was beating frantically. It filled the room and warmed the skin beneath John’s hand when he placed a rushed palm over his chest.

“I should be so angry right now.” John murmured.

“I did it to save you.” Sherlock assured.

He started to explain, but John interrupted. “No. Tell me in the morning.”

Sherlock looked up in relief. “Alright.”

John helped him up and reveled once again at the warmth of the man’s body and it’s solid feeling. Sherlock was alive. Sherlock survived. Sherlock had a heartbeat.

When they reached the bedroom, Sherlock gave John an amused look. Sleeping in Sherlock’s room seemed sensible since his leg had been bothering him and the detective was no longer there to sleep in it. But there were nights where he would be reminded that the dark haired man had slept there before, probably in the same place, and it made John clench his eyes so tight that he would see white flecks of light behind his eyelids.

Now the man lay next to him, neither worrying about the strange leap they had taken by sleeping in the same bed. He needed this, John consoled himself.

“Go to sleep, Sherlock.”

Sherlock continued to watch him, his pale eyes looking ghostly in the dim light of the room. He reached out with a thin wrist and pale fingers, rippling the sheets.  John met him halfway and they brushed fingertips before resting fully on each other’s hands.

“I forgot what it felt like to miss someone.” Sherlock whispered.

He closed his eyes then, and John had to close his eyes tight in hope that he would awake and it would not have been a dream.

 

When he woke it was to daylight and the sounds of pacing feet in the hallway. He rolled out of bed, slightly confused as to what he was hearing. The night before came back to him quickly and he jumped out of bed at the hope of seeing Sherlock.

The detective was up and pacing the hall. He had showered, from the look of his hair, and was wearing one of John’s shirts and the same torn jeans from the night before.

 John stood for a moment in the doorway, looking out at the man in complete shock. He heard the frantic heartbeat deep in the man’s chest. It was unfamiliar, but he felt it shoot through him like an electric current; a reminder that the man was now alive and breathing in front of him. A squeaking floorboard made Sherlock look up, his eyes focusing on the shorter man in the doorway.

“John,” he called desperately.

“Sherlock,” John greeted.

John made his way into the kitchen where he quietly made tea for the both of them. He could feel Sherlock behind him, staring. He never realized that the feeling could be something he would miss. When they settled with their tea, Sherlock told him everything.

He began with his deal with Moriarty and went on to explain how the witch was powerful and well known throughout the world for being one of the largest collector’s of human hearts. He explained why he had to jump and how Moriarty had gone mad with corruption and power in the end, enough to take his own life.

At the end of it all, when Sherlock finished explaining why he was away for so long and his last encounter with Sebastian Moran, John put down his mug on the table in front of him.

“You broke me, Sherlock,” he admitted.

Sherlock stood up, abandoning his mug on the arm of the chair. He strode over, hair wild in the yellow morning of Baker Street and stood awkwardly in front of John. Tentatively, he placed a hand on John’s and gently caressed the skin with is thumb.

John was still angry at him. He looked down at the man on his knees before him and felt warmth spread throughout his body. He laid hands on Sherlock’s shoulders, trying to make him understand.

"John."

Sherlock placed a hand against his chest and John felt the warmth of his skin in a radiation of heat. He reveled in the heartbeat. Something he had never heard before now fluttered delightfully under his hands.

"Sherlock, I am still angry with you." John prompted.

"Oh, you think I have not noticed." Sherlock bit back.

Suddenly, he was very angry. John stood, frustration running through him so that his legs felt like jelly when he walked towards the door. He debated on whether or not to leave, to clear his head. Sherlock was still the same as he always was. Why did he think anything could change the man?

Sherlock scoffed loudly when John reached for his coat. “Off out, then?” he sneered.

John turned around, realizing the man was right behind him. He clenched his fists and tried to contain the urge to punch him. The man who left him behind to grieve so unnecessarily was alive. He could have helped him.

“You could not have helped me, John. I needed you here to save you.” Sherlock assured him as though he was reading his thoughts.

“I know, you prat.” John hissed. “ _I know_.”

He turned his eyes away to stare at anything but Sherlock Holmes. The detective moved closer, though, and John could feel the warmth coming from him. John shoved the man roughly back when he tried to push forward and turned them so that Sherlock was now against the wall, the coats hanging behind him. He looked up into his eyes and narrowed his brow, Sherlock's pupils dilated so that the light green was quickly swallowed by pupil.

John looked down at the man’s lips, which were slightly open in surprise and confusion. He felt his anger dissipate until there was nothing but the urge to do what he had wanted to do for so long. There was still anger there, yes, but it was less of a roaring fire and now simmered evenly somewhere in him.

"I'm going to kiss you, I think." John said.

Sherlock widened his eyes as though he was surprised. What was he expecting? A punch to the face? John found it tempting but he wanted nothing more than to kiss the man. To do what he regretted not doing before.

He kissed him, but it was not exactly a kiss. It was lips and teeth and wanting nothing but to devour and possess. It was full of anger and sadness and it made John gasp when he realized just how much Sherlock _felt_. There was desperation in the way his lips messily met John’s and yet they persisted enthusiastically.

He tightened his grip on the lapels of Sherlock's jacket and memorized the small gasps and moans Sherlock made against his mouth. His breath was warm against his lips and John heard and felt the heartbeat speed up against his tongue when he licked the lower part of the taller mans lips, asking for permission to enter.

"John." Sherlock gasped into his mouth.

John moaned loudly, wanting nothing more than to hear the man in front of him say his name like that again. He wanted to touch and taste every inch of his skin. Sherlock growled low into his mouth and reached his hands up to grip John's face, holding him in place. John felt surrounded, the taste of Sherlock overwhelming his tongue and making him tremble

"John, please." Sherlock pleaded.

"Bedroom?" John asked.

Sherlock rested his forehead against the shorter man's and nodded. His eyes remained closed, but his fingers traced random patterns into John's skin. They walked together into the room, the sheets still wrinkled from sleeping in it the night before.

Sherlock turned and looked down, staring at the way John’s blue eyes seemed to widen as he looked up at the taller man. He had the same look in his eyes when he told the detective that he was amazing. Sherlock placed a hand against the John’s waist. He watched silently as John reached up and kissed him softly while pulling at the bottom of his shirt.

As he lifted his arms, the shirt came with it and John let his lips brush over the pale skin revealed underneath. Sherlock gasped when a warm tongue brushed across his chest and clutched at John's head once his shirt was discarded to the floor. John ran a hand along the man's solid chest and took note of the protruding ribs and bandages. He looked up at the man and frowned. Sherlock's eyes were half lidded and dark making a shiver run up John's spine. He leaned down and kissed the side of John's jaw while making his way down until he hit the top collar of his shirt. Sherlock helped him discard his shirt and ran a careful hand up his side. John leaned into the touch.

"You are extraordinary." Sherlock said, lightly tracing the scar that brought him back to England almost four years ago.

John kissed him, giddy with the fact that he simply could. He ran his tongue along Sherlock's lower lip and felt the man shiver. They dived into each other, so immersed in the feeling of the other's hands and lips that when they eventually made it to the bed, it was an almost smooth transition. Sherlock's back legs bumped clumsily into the mattress and John chuckled, tucking his head into Sherlock's neck so that the man could easily maneuver himself onto the bed. He did not want to stop touching him.

John quickly worked on the belt of Sherlock's jeans, noticing how much tighter they were than earlier and greedily taking in the sight. Sherlock watched his every move and lifted himself up when John lowered the jeans and pants at the same time. John took in the sight of Sherlock lying naked and hard on the sheets and felt a twitch below his stomach.

“You…” John murmured as he felt his throat close around the words he could no longer formulate.  

"Are you going to look all day or are you going to join me, doctor?" Sherlock teased, sitting up to work on John's belt and trousers.

After they were thrown off the side of the bed, Sherlock swooped in and kissed him until John was swimming in a warm haze as if this was the only thing keeping him on solid ground.

Sherlock pulled away and quickly took John in his mouth. John moaned, enveloped in heat as Sherlock's tongue ran along the bottom of his cock, making him throw his head back in pleasure. Sherlock hummed around him, looking up at John's tightly closed eyes and he reached a hand out to John's which clenched at the sheets. He picked up his hand and placed it on his head, groaning when John tightened his fingers into his hair. John thrust up slightly into the darker haired man's mouth, gasping at the feeling. Just as he felt a tightening deep within his stomach, he reached down and pulled Sherlock off of him.

"Not like that. Please, Sherlock. I need to feel you." John breathed against his mouth. When he kissed him this time, he tasted the salty tang of himself and Sherlock's unmistakable flavor that set his nerves on fire and made him feel as though he was slowly burning from the inside out.

"John." Sherlock said, pulling away and looking seriously into the other man's eyes. “Will you…?”

The question fell into the simmering air and John hesitated a slight moment. A moment later and understanding washed over him like a small wave. He gave Sherlock a look, making sure that this was alright, which seemed to be all the man needed before he nodded. "Yes." John responded.

Sherlock was up, digging through drawers in a second and came back carrying a little more than a year’s old bottle of lube and condoms. John wondered how he knew where to find them but remembered that it was Sherlock Holmes and he could find a needle in a haystack with enough clues. John blushed at the knowledge that he had not had sex in a long time, but Sherlock climbed back towards him and placed a reassuring hand on his waist.

"It'll be fine, John."

"I've never done this with a man." John admitted.

Sherlock smirked, “obvious” written all over his expression. He reached for the lube and placed it gently in John's hand.

"You'll have to prepare me." He said.

John nodded and uncapped the container. He let some out onto his fingers and rubbed them together to get it to warm on his skin. When it was warm enough, he slowly reached down between them and felt for Sherlock's opening. John kissed him then, bringing the man down with his other hand and running a distracted hand through his hair. Sherlock shivered when John gently rubbed a few circles into the heat of Sherlock's body. He moaned when John inserted one finger and ground against his knuckles in pleasure at the second finger. John kept at this for a while, enjoying the feeling of Sherlock in his hands. He brushed the man's prostate and Sherlock let out a loud shout and gripped his shoulders harder.

"Please-" He gasped.

John obliged and when the man felt thoroughly stretched, he slipped on a condom and ran more lube down it. When Sherlock sank down onto him, all John could feel was tight heat and the pressure of large hands on his shoulders. Sherlock rode him slowly at first, taking in the gasps of pleasure he was eliciting from the smaller man. John rose to meet him, the feeling of being fully inside of Sherlock making him insistent to feel more. At Sherlock’s small whimper, John gave him a concerned look. Sherlock quickly reached down and took hold of John’s hips below him, holding them down firmly.

Sherlock rested his forehead against John’s, “J-Just a moment.”

“Okay.” John breathed out shakily.

 They moved slowly until Sherlock got used to the feeling. When he met John’s hips with panted breaths and a hand reaching between them for friction, John adjusted so that whenever Sherlock sank onto him, he would feel his prostate getting hit each time. John gently pushed Sherlock’s hand away, replacing it with his own while looking up at the detective with shining blue eyes. The sounds Sherlock made as he lowered his head into the crook of his neck made John tighten his hands on the other man’s waist.

He needed to hear him. He needed the warmth of Sherlock's body to surround him and swallow him completely so that when they fell apart they were nothing but boneless masses beginning where each other ended. When he finally felt the tight feeling in his stomach once more, he tightened his grip on Sherlock's waist and cried out.

"C-come on…John. Let me…see you." Sherlock said between breaths. John lifted his head to stare at the man as he fell apart, eyes wide and mouth slack. The sight made Sherlock come apart rapidly in John's limp arms.

They spent the few moments afterwards leaning their foreheads together and breathing each other’s breath as though they wanted nothing more than to exist for each other. And maybe they already did.

John pulled away and discarded the condom into a bin by the dresser and went into the bathroom for a flannel. He returned to Sherlock lying boneless my on the bed, skin glistening and chest heaving up and down. The flannel cleaned up all of the mess and John tossed it to the side and climbed in next to Sherlock.

"That was...” Sherlock whispered. His voice was rough and beautiful in John's ears.

"Amazing?" John provided, smiling against Sherlock's arm.

“I felt…” Sherlock whispered.

“I know.”

He wrapped an arm loosely around the other man, aware of every part of skin they were touching and the ever present beating of the other man's heart. Sherlock turned into John’s chest, wrapping long arms where he could so that they were closer together than before. He looked down at the man before him, seeing the year he left clear on his face and in his eyes.

They were still broken. It was there in the way John’s cane still rested neatly against the wall of his room and the lines etched deep around his mouth. It was there in the way Sherlock still couldn’t breathe sometimes with the erratic pounding of his heart lying heavy in his chest. Sherlock far from understood what it meant to have feeling restored to him, but he knew that somehow, his heart no longer belonged to him as much as it belonged to Moriarty.

John Watson had pulled it away from them both and it sang out in steady beats and a deep sated fullness in Sherlock’s chest when he was near. Sherlock found he did not mind this weakness and sighed into John’s hair that rested just below his lips.

In the grey morning of the bedroom, he felt like the last remnants of sea foam merging with the waves on a nameless beach. And somewhere, he heard a heartbeat thudding deep within the man's chest next to him. He called it home and closed his eyes.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


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